


The Turnbolt Effect

by captainbluebear



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Historical, Mystery, No canon characters die, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 07:04:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6694402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainbluebear/pseuds/captainbluebear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione is going to change the world. To do that, she needs to rise to the top of the ministry. To do that, she needs to keep her head down and not get fired while she's still a trainee. But when an eighty-year-old mystery falls into her lap, how can she possibly stop herself from investigating?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was late, and Hermione’s eyes were burning and itching from the dust and the strain of staring at small, cursive handwriting, but she couldn’t leave yet. She pulled a goblet from her cloak, tapped it twice with her wand, and then drank deeply the ice cold water that had appeared in it.

There. Much better.

The goblet disappeared back into the fold of her cloak. She returned to the book she had been poring over, a slim but large volume, taking up most of the table. It was filled with tables and tables of information, filled in with dense, scrawled handwriting. The ink was old, faded. Every so often Hermione would poke at the text with her wand, and the words would darken.

She moved quickly and thoroughly through the pages, searching for something, her eyes flickering desperately back and forth. She let out a victorious gasp, smiling widely to herself. She had found what she was looking for. She grabbed her notepad and biro (quills and parchment were far to cumbersome to carry around on secret research missions) and scribbled down what she had found.

“Who’s there?” said a croaky, exhausted sounding voice. Hermione snapped the book shut, then immediately regretted it as the sound echoed down the aisle. She put the book back in its place, gently but as quickly as she could. She stood for a moment, listening carefully. The caretaker was heading off in the other direction. Good. She darted to the back of the aisle, making her way stealthily to the reference section. She pulled down a heavy tome about wand licencing and opened it at a random page, staring down and letting her eyes slide over the words.

“Oh, it’s just you Miss Granger.”

Hermione jumped despite herself. Her heart was thumping in her chest. “I didn’t see you Mr Franklin. I was just looking something up.” She gestured vaguely to the book in front of her.

“I didn’t know they made trainees work this late,” said Mr Franklin with a wry smile.

“I know,” Hermione said. “I just wanted to get ahead on some case work.”

“You should go home and get some sleep. I’m pretty sure trainees aren’t supposed to stay here after hours.”

“I was just leaving,” said Hermione, standing up and putting the book back on the shelf. She gathered her things together and strode purposefully towards the door. “Good night Mr Franklin.”

“Goodnight, Miss Granger,” said the caretaker.

By the time Hermione had reached the floo transit, her heart beat had started to slow. Her face was red hot. She cursed herself. She had nothing to be ashamed of – yes, it was technically frowned upon for inexperienced staff to hang around after hours, when there was no one above them to fix the million things that could go wrong in the ministry of magic – but it wasn’t exactly banned, and she had only been in the library.

Admittedly, she had been looking through the books not available to the general public, but she wasn’t the general public. It was all fine.

But it wasn’t fine. She knew that. She knew was investigating something the ministry would rather not be investigated. She knew she had found something that was meant to remain hidden. She had only suspected before, but now she was certain.

There was a fire still burning in one of the grates; just for her, it seemed. She pulled a small leather bag from an inner pocket and sprinkled some powder from it into the flames, stepping into the fire as she did.

Hermione fell into her living room at five minutes passed one, according to the Victorian clock on the mantelpiece. She stumbled out of the fire place, disorientated. The caretaker had a point; it was far too late to be just coming home from the office.

She could hear Ron snoring from the bedroom. When she had first shared a bed with him, it annoyed her, but now it was the most soothing sound in the world, and she wanted nothing more to curl up into bed next to him, and fall asleep.

Instead, and against her better judgement (but since when had she been using that lately?), she collapsed on to the sofa and pulled out her notes.

She spread them across the coffee, pulling pages out of her notebook so she could view them side by side. She stared at them, hoping something new would jump out at her, hoping a story less miserable might make itself present. But no, she was right and she was sure. The evidence was all pointing to something strange and wrong.

***

The next morning, Hermione awoke to pain in her neck and the smell of burnt toast.

“Good morning,” said Ron as he put a plate in front of her, shoving some papers to the side. Hermione smiled when she saw he had given her the unburnt bits of toast.

Ron was eating his own blackened breakfast as he spoke to her. “Late night?”

“Thank you,” Hermione said as she grabbed the toast and started slathering on the blackberry jam Ron had brought out for her. After she’d swallowed a couple of bites she said, “I had research to do. Lost track of time.”

“The Turnbolt case?”

Hermione nodded.

“Well,” said Ron, “It’s your day off, and my day off, so you should forget about it for today and come and watch the Tornados match with me. And you know, come on a date and all that.” He looked her up and down. “You might want to go have a nap in a real bed first though.”

“I can’t.” Ron’s face fell and guilt thrummed through Hermione. “I’m really sorry, I just, really need to go and do this thing. It’s the first time I’ve had proper time off in so long, I don’t when else I’ll get the chance.” She sighed. “This is really important to me Ron.”

Her explanation didn’t make Ron look any less crestfallen, but he nodded. “Okay,” he said, leaning down to kiss her. “But we spend your next day off together.”

“Deal”, she said, returning his kiss.

***

As she made her way to the station, Hermione couldn’t help but wonder if she was being mad. Maybe she should have stayed in London and enjoyed a rare day with her boyfriend. Maybe she was just on a wild goose chase, running after something that was not there.

But no, Hermione was sure of herself. She knew what she had read, and she knew it was worth investigating.

***

Hermione had only been into her third week at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement when she came across the records, and yes, she had been on the lookout for weird cases, because that was in her nature, but she hadn’t expected to be hit in the face with it so quickly.

Her job as a new trainee, working and in and out of the courts, was by and large mundane. Basic research and note taking took much of Hermione’s time, along with rushing from courtroom to courtroom. Most of her training consisted on sitting on hearings and meetings and watching and listening. She yearned to get involved, especially during the hearings when the speakers put forth facile arguments while the defendants sat quivering in the chair in the centre of the room. She often found herself whispering corrections under her breath.

One day, she hadn’t been able to restrain herself. She had spoken up during a hearing. It was the right thing to do, she knew it; the poor women who was being tried for illegal potion trading was clearing not capable of defending herself. There was no one there to speak on her behalf – she had no living family to support her, no money to pay a representative. Hermione had asked on her second day about whether there were public lawyers assigned to defendants, to which her supervisor responded with an expression of complete bafflement. She had sent letters, to various ministers and The Daily Prophet, and accosted the Head of Magical Law Enforcement on his tea break, but everyone seemed bemused by her suggestion. Hermione kept writing letters, but also put public defenders down on her list of things to achieve, when she was in charge.

So this poor woman, a lady called Magda Thyme, had no one to defend her. She was charged with serious crimes – she made her living selling home-made potions, speciality items most wizards could not be bothered to cook up themselves. According to the Ministry, she had ordered in several banned ingredients from Eastern Europe and used them to make some dangerously mind altering potions. She had then sold these potions on to two illicit dealers. There were a million different holes in the story being presented to the court, but Hermione tried to keep herself calm.

Magda Thyme was a shy woman, and seemed to crumble under the barrage of questions. She mumbled under her breathe about how she couldn’t leave her house most days, that she found walking painful, and brewing was one of the few activities she could still do. Buyers came to her house, but she most certainly could not have gone to the rendezvous points where the ministry official was accusing her of buying and selling illegal goods. She had only managed to make the court date with the help of her neighbour. Hermione had seen along with all the others in the court the time it took for Mrs Thyme to clamber from her wheelchair into the Defendant’s Seat. It was required that she sit there, the High Minister told Mrs Thyme in a cool voice. That was the moment Hermione realised the court wouldn’t believe anything Mrs Thyme said. They had made their decision. 

There had been no evidence of illegal potion brewing in Mrs Thyme’s old house, which would have ruled her out, if her infirmity was believed, but the High Minister was insistent that she must have been brewing elsewhere – there was evidence of “noxious fumes” at her deceased sister’s apartment, which Mrs Thyme still held the deed to.

Mrs Thyme started shaking at this particular revelation, exclaiming that she had never visited her sister’s, even when she was able, because it was too upsetting for her. When her sister died, she was left alone. 

It was when the ministry official shouted in response that multiple witnesses had seen a woman matching Mrs Thyme’s description, coming and going from the flat, that Hermione could not restrain herself any longer. It was like a wave she could not hold back. It was a tornado.

She jumped to her feet.

“Those witnesses were already discredited!” Hermione winced at how shrill her voice sounded. She took a deep breath and forced herself to continue, slower. “Mr Watkins has a long term grudge against Mrs Thyme, after she sold him a virility potion he claims caused him to lose all his hair and ended his marriage, and Miss Meaden is the sister of one of the other main suspects in the trafficking case! You can’t really trust their testimony.” Everyone was staring at Hermione and she could feel her cheeks burning. She should have stopped at that point, but she couldn’t if she wanted to. “Multiple healers have confirmed that this woman was not capable of walking to her sister’s flat as the witnesses have claimed.”

The High Minister regarded her with a steely gaze. “And your name is, Miss?”

“Granger,” said Hermione, trying to keep her voice sounding strong and dignified, “Hermione Granger.”

A murmur went around the room, and Hermione knew that her name had been recognised. Harry Potter’s friend. Her biggest claim to fame, despite everything.

The High Minister looked unimpressed, and nodded at the two security wizards at the main entrance to hall. “Escort Miss Granger out of the court.”

“But-“ Hermione began, but one of the security wizards already had his hand on her arm and was leading her out of the room.

***

That was how she ending up in archiving. Her supervisor, Johnson, screamed at her when she was reported to his office.

Johnson rose from his desk chair to yell at her: “I don’t care who you think you are! I don’t care who you are friends with! You follow the rules! You don’t interfere with actual court cases.” He sank back into his chair, and it looked like he was done, but when Hermione opened her mouth he banged his fist down on to the table. “Jesus,” he said, and then blushed. Hermione smiled slightly; she hadn’t realised he was a fellow muggle born.

Johnson put his head in his hands. “You’re smart Granger, but you make life difficult for me. I know about the fuss you made, bothering the Head of Department, sending all those letters- don’t argue,” Hermione closed her mouth, “You can’t be involved in active cases anymore, not even observing.”

Terror was flowing throw Hermione, threatening to freeze her in place. This was it, her career, over before it even began.

“You’ll spend the rest of your placement in basement. There’s plenty of old filing to do.”

Hermione let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you Sir.”

Johnson stared at her. “Just go.”

Hermione hurried out of Johnson’s office. The next day she reported to the basement archive.

It was boring and easy work, going through the files. She copied them, alphabetised them, and made sure all the paperwork was in the right folder, quick work with a wand. She wasn’t meant to be reading them, and she kept to that rule for five whole minutes before curiosity overcame her.

Most of the case files weren’t very interesting. A lot of low level theft and fraud. Higher level financial crimes with a worrying rate of acquittal. The occasional unlicensed duel.

And then there was this. A murder case, all the way back in 1920.

Hermione turned the brown envelope over in her hand, curious. All the other records she had been filing were from the late ‘80s and early ‘90s. She wondered how this one had got mixed in.

She looked around to see if anyone was watching. She happily noted that she was alone in this section of the archive, and sat down on a small portable set of stairs to open the envelope.

The first thing she pulled out was a small black and white photo. It was of a young, emaciated woman with stringy brown hair and wide, hollow eyes. She was dressed in what was clearly a prison uniform. This was a mugshot.

Hermione turned over the photo. “Amelia Ennings, 1920” was scrawled on the back.

The next item in the envelope was the charge list, written on court paper: “The defendant is charged with the murders of Benjamin Fielding and Ruth Turnbolt, by use of the Unforgivable killing curse.”

Hermione let out breath. This was serious and almost certainly none of her business. Moreover it was decades old and should be of no interest to her. She kept on reading.

She emptied the rest of the contents of the envelope in her lap. It was hopeless disorganised, filled with notes written on various scraps of paper. Hermione scanned through the notes. One note in particular caught her attention. It read:

“The defendant claims that both of the Unforgivable curses were cast by Mr Fielding. She claims that Mr Fielding first cast the spell that killed her sister Ruth, then the spell that killed himself.

“There is no evidence that Mr Fielding was suicidal, and self-inflicted curses are very difficult to perform. The defendant’s claims are dubious.”

Behind the notes was a death certificate. “Amelia Ennings. Died 30th May 1927 in Azkaban prison. Natural causes.”

It could have been nothing worth investigating. Really Hermione should have put all the documents back in the envelope and file the envelope away. Instead, she put all the documents into her bag, and put a red note on the enveloped saying that its contents had gone missing. This happened often enough in the ministry archives for it to be believable.

***

The first thing Hermione did once her work day was over was to go straight to the Ministry Registry, to see if she could track down any living relatives of Amelia Turnbolt

The archive wizard check and double checked for Hermione, at her loud insistence.

“Yep,” said the wizard working at the registry, a young man with a flash of red hair and a tag with “Hello, I’m Reggie!” written on it in shiny wriggling letters pinned to his robes. Reggie was flicking through old ministry records as Hermione stood next to him, impatient. “There’s nothing. The Turnbolt line is dead end. Ruth and Amelia both died childless.” He turned to Hermione and shrugged, “Sorry.”

Hermione did not trust this wizard. He looked brand new, not day over eighteen, and the way he fumbled through the century old documents with no precision or care put Hermione’s teeth on edge.

“I think I’ll have a look myself,” said Hermione.

“I don’t think-,” but before Reggie could finished his statement Hermione had shoved him aside and was looking herself. “Aha,” she said in victory, pulling out a sheet. Reggie squinted at it.

“The 1911 census form? I already looked at that, there’s nothing.”

Hermione just smiled and said, “Do you mind if I copy this?”

Reggie shrugged.

Hermione tapped the paper with her wand, then handed the original to Reggie and pocketed the copy. With that she turned and left.

“Thank you for your visit!” shouted Reggie as she went.

Hermione couldn’t resist getting out the copy of the census form to look at again as she was walking out of the ministry. She smiled as she looked at it. Reggie had been right, that there was nothing there, at least to the untrained eye. The paper stated that two people lived in the Ennings family home: Thomas, and his wife Amelia. But Hermione had finished her placement in the Ministry registry top of her class and she instantly recognise the shiny, stained bit of parchment that signified it had been magically edited, just below the heading “Children”.

***

That smudge was why she was there now, just off the train in the small Devon town. It had been a simple case of tracking down newspapers from the time with birth announcements. Once she realised the birth was being mentioned in muggle newspapers as well as wizarding ones, she decided to look though some muggle records. And after a bit of digging, here she was.

The Devonshire coast was cold and beautiful. Hermione shivered.

She had taken the quick train down – half an hour from London to Devon. Some Wizards insisted on apparating or taking the floo, but Hermione preferred a calmer way of travel. She liked having the time to herself, to think.  

When she got off the train, she had gone to the seaside first, just to stare. That was where she was standing now, looking across the horizon. The sky was grey and the sea violent, crashing against the rocks on the coast. The sky started to spit, and Hermione welcomed the water splashing against her face.

She turned, and started the walk along the coast. It was forty five minutes, by her calculation. She could have apparated, but once again, she wanted to go the slow way. Walking by the sea was calming.

The house was isolated, ramshackle. It was two stories high, made of grey stone with a thatch roof. There was a locked gate at the front of the gravel path to the house, but the fencing around the house must have fallen down, as the gate was attached to nothing.

The door has been painted light blue, but the paint had chipped and as Hermione approached she saw flecks of bright red. She pressed her hand against the door. The wood was splintering.

Hermione took a deep breathe. She still wasn’t entirely sure of herself. Was she even in the right place? There had been no mention of a daughter in any of the ministry files. Hermione had only managed to track her down through muggle ancestry records. She shook herself, shaking her arms and legs in an attempt to calm herself down. It would be fine.

She knocked twice, sharply.

Hermione almost gave up, assuming there was no one home, but eventually she heard the sound of a voice, “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

The door swung open. A small, dark haired woman stood in front of Hermione. She looked ninety at least.

“Mrs Letchworth?” said Hermione. “I’m Hermione Granger. We spoke on the phone.”

Mrs Letchworth stared at her. After a few moments a look of understanding dawned upon her face. “Of course! Miss Granger, of course of course. I’m so sorry, my memory. Come in.” Mrs Letchworth stepped aside and beckoned Hermione to enter. She led Hermione to living room, insisting she sit in the comfiest looking armchair.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” asked Mrs Letchworth.

“No, tha-,” Hermione began, but Mrs Letchworth had already bustled into the kitchen. Hermione tried to follow, but Mrs Letchworth waved her away. “Sit down dear, you’re my guest.” Hermione decided not to fight it, and returned to the living room.

She took the opportunity to stare around the room, getting a glance of this woman’s life. There were three armchairs, and a sofa, big enough for four at a squeeze. There was a decent sized table in the centre of the room. The room was designed for many occupants.

The floor was covered in a criss-cross of rugs, different colours and patterns, some subtle and some loud. They should have clashed, but the overall effect was homely, endearing.

The walls were covered with pictures; coloured and black and white. None of them were moving. Hermione peered closer at one of the pictures above the mantelpiece. There was a woman, dressed in white, her veil flowing behind her head.  Her face was split open wide in a grin, her eyes alight with happiness. She looked so young, and happy, and nothing like the dishevelled mugshot sitting back at Hermione’s flat in London. She reached out to touch the photo, to get an inch closer to this woman who was so happy and so far away, but thought better of it and moved her hand away.

“I only had Earl Grey, I hope that’s okay,” said Mrs Letchworth as she bumbled into the living, tray in hand.

Hermione turned to see Mrs Letchworth’s eyes flicker to photo, something halfway between suspicion and grief in her gaze. Mrs Letchworth knew why she was here. Hermione just hope she would be able to see it through.

“Let’s sit down,” said Hermione softly. She stepped forward and took the tray from Mrs Letchworth, setting it on the table.

“Yes, yes dear,” murmured Mrs Letchworth. “Did you have a good journey? You must have got up very early to get here in the morning.”

“It was fine, thank you.” Hermione fumbled in her bag, getting out her pen and paper, and a small voice recorder her mother had given her and kindly walked her through using. It was clear from her conversation with Mrs Letchworth over the phone that using a Dicta-Quill would not be an option. She played with the machine, praying it would turn on without trouble. Sometimes she hated how much she was distanced from the muggle world. It was useful, apart from anything else.

“Is it okay if we start straight away?” said Hermione, doing her best to sound proper and professional, like a real historian doing real historical research, not a government trainee who was evading her superiors to do this.

“That’s fine dear,” Mrs Letchworth gave Hermione a reassuring smile. Hermione cursed inwardly; were her nerves really so awkward.

Hermione clicked record on the microphone. After a moment’s hesitation, she spoke. “Interview number one: Agnes Letchworth. Interviewer: Hermione Granger. Date: 8th July 2002.

“So Mrs Letchworth: Where were you born?”

“In this town. In a house just up the road. It’s gone now.”

“What day was it?”

“The second of August 1909.”

“Do you remember much about your parents?”

“My mother Amelia yes. I don’t remember very much about my father at all. He was called Thomas. I know he was a bookbinder, and quite well paid. He kept us afloat, when he was alive. My mother always said he was such a hard worker.

“I have a few odd memories of him. I remember, when I was four, and he bound some of the pictures I had drawn – the terrible scribbles children draw, you know – into a little book using scraps left over from his work.”

There was a dazed sort of smile on Mrs Letchworth’s face. She looked calm. Then her expression soured.

“He died when I was eight. He had a cough that just wouldn’t go away.”

“How were things after your father died?”

“Difficult. We didn’t have much money then. A small pension from his job. My mother got some work, went to clean people’s houses, took in clothes for mending, that sort of thing. But she didn’t earn much.

“Her sister, my aunt Ruth, she came to visit though, to help look after us. She helped us survive really. She looked after me and cooked and cleaned and kept the house going. She was the one who taught me to read and write. She had her own life – a job, and a man she was planning to marry. But she stopped it all, to come and help us.”

Her eyes were shiny with tears. She started to search through her pockets, patting her cardigan. Hermione pulled a tissue from her pocket and handed it to her.

“Thank you.” Mrs Letchworth sniffed.

“Would you like to take a break?”

“No no,” said Mrs Letchworth, shaking her head, “Let’s keep going.”

“Okay. What else do you remember about that time, when your aunt was with you?”

“I was happy. It was terrible and painful, but I was happy to have my mother and my aunt still, to have my home still. And my aunt was so much fun. When she wasn’t looking after the house or teaching me, she always wanted to play games. She taught me most of the card games I know.”

“Were there any problems, at this time?”

“Of course there were problems! There was money for a start. It was difficult, to make it stretch sometimes. We would have keep leftovers going for days, that was awful. And the damp in the bedroom. Mum would make me sleep in the living room when it got too bad; she was scared for my lungs.”

A pause. Hermione knew what was coming.

“And there was him, of course. That man.”

“Benjamin Fielding?”

“Yes, him.

“He was an odd one. I never liked to be around him, he gave me a funny feeling in my stomach. But my mother told me I needed to be nice to him, because he was one of our sort. So I tried to be polite to him. Sometimes he brought me presents, sweets and things. There was this beautiful Russian doll. I liked him a lot more after he got me that. He was a nice man, I suppose.”

“One of your sort? What did your mother mean by that?” Hermione’s heartbeat rose, and she tried to keep the quaver out of her voice.

Mrs Letchworth shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t know what she meant. He was like us in some way, he kept away from other people in village the way we did, I guess. I don’t really remember.” She shook her head. “Please forgive me, I’m old. There’s so much I can’t seem to remember from that time.

“He was a nice enough man, but there was trouble. He got a bit of a crush on my auntie Ruth. She was beautiful, you see. She had thick glossy black hair, curly, she used to let me brush it. And she had these wide dark eyes. Men fell head over heels for her all time. But she would tell them she was betrothed and they would leave her alone, usually.”

“But Mr Fielding didn’t.”

“Well, Auntie Ruth liked his company you see. He would send her presents and they would always be talking together. It was nothing serious, I’m sure, my aunt was loyal to her betrothed, but it didn’t make my mother happy.”

“Why not?” Hermione leaned forward.

“I suppose she felt a bit… ignored maybe. Upset that she wasn’t getting as much attention as my aunt. Upset that my aunt was spending so much time without her. My mother was lovely, she was a brilliant woman and I miss her every day. But she was a human being, just like the rest of us. In any case, she seemed unsettled by what was going on between my aunt and Mr Fielding. And then there was the incident.”

“Incident?”

Mrs Letchworth gave a sad smile. “Mr Fielding collected rare plants. Really odd ones, from Asia. He sent a sample from one of them to my aunt, I suppose he thought she would find it interesting.” Mrs Letchworth shrugged. “In any case, I was the one who opened the package and some of the sample leaked onto my fingers. The sample turned out to be quite caustic – it burned my fingers. It was the most terrible pain. I had to be taken to hospital. That really enraged my mother.”

“Unsurprisingly,” said Hermione before she could stop herself.

Mrs Letchworth stared at Hermione. “It was only an accident.”

Hermione bowed her head. “You’re right, I’m sorry. Please, if you could go on.”

Mrs Letchworth coughed and then started speaking. “So, yes, it became difficult after the incident. There were a few fights between the mother and Mr Fielding before the day.” She took a deep breath. “The day it happened.”

“The day Mr Fielding and your aunt died?” Before the question had left her lips Hermione shuddered at her own lack of tact.

Mrs Letchworth nodded, her eyes shiny.

 “I’m going to have another cup of tea. Would you like one?”

Hermione shook her head. “No thank you.” She stopped the recording. No need to waste disk space on a cup of tea.

Mrs Letchworth smiled, but her mouth quivered as though under terrible strain. “I’ll be back in a few minutes then.”

Hermione appreciated the respite. She took the time to breathe deep, closing her eyes, trying to calm the flurry of her mind. She knew what was coming next.

Mrs Letchworth took her time with the tea, and Hermione didn’t hurry her.

When Mrs Letchworth finally came back, there was a look of determination about her.

She sat down, and said, “I’m sorry. It’s hard for me. I almost just walked straight out the back door and didn’t come back.” She stared down at her hands, picking at the tips of her fingers. “But I want to get this out. It’s been so long since I’ve spoken about it; it feels like it been weighing me down for all these years.

“It’s difficult, blurry. I remember, Mr Fielding, he came to our house one day. There was nothing unusual about it; he just wanted to talk to my aunt. But my mother, she was so angry at him. She started screaming and shouting. That was when my aunt made me go upstairs; she locked me into my room. She didn’t want me to see the fight, I suppose, but it was so scary being trapped there. There was all this noise but I couldn’t tell what was going on. There was yelling and this loud crash. And then it all went quiet.” Mrs Letchworth was clasping her hands together against her chest and her face was paper white. “I stayed there, in my room. I couldn’t get out. I wanted to go out and find my mother and aunt, but I also wanted to stay and hide. I hid under the bed. I waited, until the policemen came.”

“The policemen?”

“Yes, yes, they must have been. Who else could they have been, I mean? They were oddly dressed though, funny policemen, now that I think about it. It didn’t strike me as odd at the time though.”

“What happened when the policemen came?”

“I passed out. That’s what they told me. I woke up a week later, in an orphanage. They explained that my mother and aunt were dead, along with Mr Fielding. They said it was in an accident. I couldn’t remember then. I didn’t know any different. When I woke up, I was so disorientated I couldn’t tell you what time of year it was.”

“Do you remember anything, of that week?”

“No, it’s a total blank. They said I was unconscious the whole time.”

“They say?”

“I don’t trust them. They told me it was an accident. I believed them for a while. For too long.”

“What made you change your mind?”

“Dreams. I had dreams about that day, about them screaming. I know it wasn’t an accident.”

“I think I’ve said all I want to say.” Mrs Letchworth looked legitimately apologetic. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“No, I should probably get going,” said Hermione as she rose to her feet. “I’ve got a train to catch and all.” After a few more minutes of chatter and small talk, Hermione was at the door.

Hermione was almost out of sight of the house when she heard Mrs Letchworth calling to her. “Miss Granger! Miss Granger!”

Hermione met her at the gate. Mrs Letchworth placed a bundle of papers into Hermione’s hands. “I meant to give you these, I can’t believe I forgot. They belonged to my aunt. They were written in some kind of code, I can’t really understand them. But maybe they’ll be help to you.”

Hermione took the papers from her gently, reverently. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you so much.”

***

As Hermione walked towards the train station, battling against the prevailing wind, she went over their conversation in her head. It was bizarre, trying to match up this elderly, incredibly muggle woman, who had no inkling of the magical world with the daughter of a powerful, apparently infamous, witch. And moreover, Hermione couldn’t understand by this woman, the only witness to the crime, was not mentioned in any of the court material at the ministry, and had apparently been written out of ministry records.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione faces pressure from her job as she uncovers new evidence in the Amelia Ennings case. 
> 
> Please check end notes for trigger warnings

Hermione was itching to read what Mrs Letchworth had given her on the train home, but something about the journal and letters felt intimate, private, so she waited until she got back to her flat.

It was empty when she got there – Ron was still out. Hermione felt a pang of guilt, made worse by the fact she was relieved by his absence. It meant she could get right down to sorting through the papers.

She forced herself to put the kettle on and summon some rice from the cupboard. As the rice was simmering away on the stove, she went into the living room to read the first letter on the pile.

It was dated the third of September, 1900, and was written in faded, childish handwriting.

_Dear Ruthie,_

_I wish you were here! Hogwarts is everything Mummy and Daddy said it would be. I’ve never seen a place so magical. It’s full of portraits and all of them move and talk. A painting of a  pretty lady (I think she was a princess!) gave me directions to one of my lessons yesterday. I got lost because one of the stair cases moved while I was on it!_

_The lessons here are brilliant. I’ve learned how to turn matchstick into a pin. It doesn’t sound like much, but it’s actually very difficult. And I’m learning all about different plants and potions. I’ll teach everything to you when I come home for Christmas._

_I got sorted into Hufflepuff, which I’m really pleased about. The house colour for Hufflepuff is yellow, same as Chiswick house at your school. We match!_

_I wish so badly you could have come to Hogwarts with me. I hope you are getting on well at St Albans. Be sure you write back and tell me all about it,_

_Yours faithfully,_

_Amelia_

Hermione smiled. It was warming, to see the sweet, loving letter from sister to sister. Hermione’s smile faded when she remembered exactly what would happen to the two sisters.

Hermione flicked through the letters. A lot of them were similar to the first – correspondence between the two sisters about school meals and lessons and schoolyard gossip. She read them all, putting a handful on the side to reread later.

_14th November 1902_

_Dear Ruthie,_

_I feel jealous of all the reading you get to do. They never let us look at poems at Hogwarts. Everything is so practical. It’s nice in its own way, but I would love to sit and talk about poems and books in class._

_Things are getting a lot harder here. We have so much homework! I think you would probably hate it. We write essays all the time, and have to memorise so many useless facts about plants._

_We don’t even get to relax going flying! It’s all Daddy ever talked about when he told me about Hogwarts, but it turns out only boys can have broomsticks or be on the Quidditch team._

_Wizarding school really isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I bet you are having a lot more fun at St Albans._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Amelia_

_16th April 1905_

_I am sorry! I know you wrote to me over a month ago, and I have been utterly terrible by not replying, but I am overwhelmed. My exams are coming up and the professors are all coming down on us like a ton of bricks. I can barely move for homework. Hopefully St Albans is being kinder to you._

_There is another, perhaps less noble, reason I have been slow in my replies. I have fallen in love! His name is Thomas. He is tall and dashing, like something out of a fairy story. And he is so kind to me._

_I would love for you to meet him, only he is rather traditional, so it’s better you not._

_I suppose you do not meet many boys, being at an all-girls school. I hope you will tell me if anyone does catch your eye._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Amelia_

_11th July 1908_

_Dear Ruth,_

_Please do not come to the wedding. I am afraid your presence would cause too much turmoil with Thomas’ family. I love you with all my heart. Please do not forget that._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Amelia_

_3rd August 1909_

_Dear Ruth_

_My daughter came into this world yesterday. I named her Agnes for our mother. Thomas is going away on business next week. I would love you to come and visit us then._

_It has been a long time, and I know you are angry, but please come. Your niece is beautiful._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Amelia_

_9th August 1916_

_Dear Ruth,_

_I am sorry I have not written in so long._

_I am afraid something quite terrible is happening, and I need your advice and support on this matter. It feels like history is repeating itself._

_Agnes, I am scared, is like you. She is seven now and has not even show a glimmer of magic. I took her to the local Healer and he could not find anything wrong with her – she is strong as an ox. I know what he thinks, although he will not say it – she is a squib._

_I am so frightened for her. I of course love her no matter what, just as I love you, but I do not believe Thomas thinks like I do. He views it as shameful to have a squib in the family. He thinks it a sign that the family is dishonourable. At the very least, he will send Agnes away from me. I hope that he will find her a good boarding school and a family to lodge with, but I am scared that he will just drop her at the entrance of a muggle orphanage and I will never see her again._

_What am I to do? How can I placate him?_

_Do you think I might send Agnes to you? Thomas may accept that, given you are of the same kind. But as of now he does not know you exist. This is so terribly difficult._

_Please write back soon._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Amelia_

_2nd September 1916_

_Dear Ruth,_

_You are right as always. I was too hasty in my worries. Agnes is young, and may still show signs of magic yet. I have persuaded Thomas that no action should be taken at least until it is the year that Agnes should enter Hogwarts. If she still has not shown magic by then, I have no idea what I will do._

_On to happier things, I am delighted to hear that you are engaged. It saddens me how much I have missed not talking to you. I must meet your betrothed soon._

_I send you my love._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Amelia_

_11 th May 1917_

_Dear Ruth,_

_Thomas is dead. I need you._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Amelia_

Hermione could smell burning. She turned to see smoke pouring from the pot on the stove. She grabbed her wand, pointing at the stove. The smoke cleared and stove went out, but the smell of burning remained. Hermione sighed as she looked into the pot and saw the rice, dried out and burned black. She vanished the rice with a flick of her wand, got some more water boiling and went back to the papers.

The letters were curious, useless and revealing all at once. A lot of the basic facts Hermione had already known – Amelia went to Hogwarts in 1900, she was a Hufflepuff, she struggled in school. She married Thomas Ennings just a few months after she left school. However, aside from the difficulties of her marriage, one thing was obvious from these letters, that hadn’t come through in the court papers: Ruth Turnbolt was a squib.

It was curious to Hermione that the court records held no mention of Ruth’s status, just as they had made no mention of Agnes’ existence. It was as though squib-ness was something too obscene to be mentioned.

The water came to the boil and Hermione added more rice.

Bundled together with the letters was a small, leather bound journal. It had to be Ruth’s. Hermione felt slightly guilty about opening it. Diaries were, after all, meant to be private. But it was important she know what was inside. She opened it and scanned the first page. There were no dates; each entry was separated from the others only by her name.

The first entry read:

_My sister, my good for nothing selfish sister, got me this. She hasn’t got me a present in years, not since we were 14. I suppose she must feel guilty now. As well she should. Summoning me here, to help her after all this time. After she rejected me for her Thomas. She asks me to forgive her! Hah! I shall be bitter if I  want to be. I will not embrace her with open arms for all the hurt she has caused. She can’t seriously believe a plain little book and some flowers grown in her garden will be enough to make me love her again._

_And yet, I am here. Away from my Harold, from my home and my friends. Away from the wedding I am meant to be planning. But how can I say no to Amelia, when she has a little girl and no one to help her? I asked Amelia if she had any neighbours who might lend a hand, but it seems Thomas isolated her from everyone. It is always a tragedy when a man dies, especially with a young family, but I would be dishonest if I claimed to mourn greatly for Thomas’ passing. The only tears I shed are for the sake of Amelia and Agnes._

_Oh, I suppose I do love Amelia, despite all of it. I am still deeply angry over her betrayal but she is my sister. That is why I am here._

_I must go and get dinner started for Agnes. Amelia is out searching for work. It is unfortunate she is not a very accomplished witch; she cannot seem to make much money in the magical world. I wish_ I _had a magic wand I could wave to help her._

_Ruth._

Hermione took her rice off the stove. She grabbed a bowl of fish curry that she’d made the previous day from cool cupboard, jabbed her wand at it until it was hot through, and then added the rice to it. She ate as she read the rest of journal, careful not to spill any food on it.

As she read through, she made a note of the most important section, copying them over to a fresh piece of parchment using her wand.

_I am dog tired. I spent today cleaning some old lady’s house, and she stood over me the whole time I was there, so I couldn’t rest even for a moment. If she was so determined the house be cleaned to her exact specifications, why could she not clean it herself? She paid me well though, and there was enough money to buy some fresh fruit for Agnes. I worry about that girl._

_***_

_I met a lovely man today. His name is Benjamin and he is a true sweetheart. He’s one of my sister’s sort, but he doesn’t look down on me, even though I told him what I am. He runs a potion shop, but he also sells herbal remedies to the muggles. He lives in both worlds, like me , and he shows both of them respect._

_It’s nice to be around someone outside family. I can talk about things I cannot otherwise._

_***_

_Benjamin tried to kiss me today. I am in disbelief. He just lunged forward and had his lips almost pressed against mine when I jumped back. I’m afraid to say I ran away from him._

_Agnes’ lessons are going well. They are a good distraction._

_***_

_Benjamin came to the house today to apologise. He explained that he was acting on impulse and did not truly mean it. He spoke at length about his regrets. But then he said he thought I was beautiful. I explained to him that I am engaged to be married, and I view him as a close and wonderful friend. He left slightly despondent, but I am glad that we have made up._

_***_

_Benjamin sent me a letter today. He was furious. The letter said such terrible things about me. He called me worthless. A worthless squib, he said. He said that any squib should feel honoured that a pure blood wizard wants to touch her. I feel deeply shaken. I shall stay inside today._

_I am afraid to leave the house. Wherever I go he seems to be there. Sometimes he acts kind, begging me to give him another chance. Other times he says such horrible things._

_Amelia is being so supportive to me. I won’t pretend that the hurt has gone away, but I feel that our relationship is mending, bit by bit. She let me cry on her shoulder, and told me that Benjamin was a full of lies. She said that she would protect me._

_Maybe she was selfish, but I also know that Thomas poisoned Amelia. Since his death, my sister has returned to me._

_***_

_He posted something through our letter box. A hideous green plant, oozing pus. Agnes picked it up and horrible big warts started growing on her hands. In a matter of seconds her hands were covered in them, and she couldn’t move her fingers. She cried so much from the pain. Thankfully Amelia was there. She was able to cast a spell to stop the warts from growing, but she could not remove the ones that had already grown. She rushed the girl off to the hospital wizards go to, all the way in London. I hope they can help her there. I am already so scared about what the cost will be._

_I feel so terrible, for bringing this upon my sweet niece. She deserves better._

_***_

_The wizarding police are involved now, according to Amelia. They are looking into it as best they can, though they can’t prove that Benjamin is the one who sent the plant that hurt Agnes._

_I am glad they are involved; I don’t think our police could handle Benjamin. But I do not trust these wizard policemen to protect me or Agnes. I know what they think of our sort. I doubt they believe us worth protecting._

_***_

Hermione’s eyes widened as she read this. There had been nothing in the court file about aurors being involved prior to the deaths of Amelia and Benjamin. She had searched through all the documents and seen nothing about a possible harassment case.

***

_A man came to our house today. He wore the most hideous bright green robes! I almost laughed. He had a very odd name as well, odd even for my sister’s sort, – Eliosious Feckleberry. What a mouthful._

_He said that he was from the Ministry of Magic, and that he was in charge of the case against Benjamin. I immediately began to tell him all of the things Benjamin had done lately – the letters and parcels and assaults in the streets that had not stopped despite the aurors’ involvement in the case. But he shushed me, and viewed me with a patronising look in his eyes. He told me that I should try and stay calm and ignore the goings on of Mr Fielding. He explained that his department was investigating Benjamin for Unsafe Transportation of Dangerous Plant Life, but there was not much they could do at present. He told me to report if anything else happened._

_I am afraid I said a few rather rude things to this man. He left shortly after._

_***_

“Eliosious Feckleberry,” Hermione said to herself. A name. She had a name. Someone she could pursue. And it was name that sounded oddly familiar.

Hermione was snapped out of her reverie by the sound of a key in the door. _Ron._ She gathered the letters together and took them into the bedroom, tucking them away in her bedside table. She had an anti-damage spell on the drawer, so she could trust that the papers would be safe there. She needed to put Amelia Turnbolt away for a little bit, and focus on her own life. And her boyfriend, she thought guiltily. She would find out who Eliosious Feckleberry was tomorrow.

“Hermione, where are you?” came Ron’s voice.

“In here,” Hermione called back.

When she saw Ron at the bedroom door, it felt like she hadn’t seen him for an age. She lunged forward and wrapped her arms around him. She let herself enjoy the comfort of his presence.

Hermione and Ron had a quiet evening together. He listened attentively while she explained the case and everything that had happened so, looking appalled at all the right moments. When she got to the part about Eliosious Feckleberry, he put his hand to stop her.

“I know that name. It’s up on a plaque near mine and Harry’s office.” His face looked grim. “He died in 1996.”

“Oh,” Hermione flopped backwards. “I guess I’ll have to find something else then.”

Ron leant to Hermione and gave her a hug. “You’ll find something. I believe in you.”

Hermione smiled as she snuggled into Ron’s arms. “So,” she said, “enough about me. Tell me about your day.”

***

The opening to Beethoven’s 6th Symphony had once been one of Hermione’s favourite pieces, but the sound of her alarm clock playing it at 6 o’clock in the morning was now bound to make her homicidal. She couldn’t even listen to it at other times of the day without shuddering. Conditioning was a powerful thing.

Hermione waved her hand at the alarm clock and it went silent. She tried to open her eyes, but her eyelids were unbelievably heavy. She regretted staying up so late with Ron the night before, but only slightly. She felt so comfy.  She turned over, snuggled into Ron’s side and let the warm fuzziness of sleep overtake her.

Beethoven’s 6th Symphony rang once again through the room. Hermione opened her eyes and raised her hand to turn the music off, then jumped up into sitting position. “Shit,” she nearly shouted.

“Wha-,” said Ron blearily.

“I’m late. Oh never mind Ron go back to sleep.” Ron wouldn’t need to be up for another hour. Lucky bastard.

Hermione pulled herself out of bed and swore as she tripped over a pair of shoes she didn’t remember leaving on the floor last night.

She skipped breakfast, had a quick shower and pulled on the first set of robes she found in her cupboard. It was only after she had apparated to the ministry that she realised this was the too small set with a long tear in the right hand sleeve. She jabbed the tear with her wand and it neatly sewed itself up, but there was nothing she could about the size. Hermione groaned to herself and set off toward the archives.

She was half jogging half walking to the lift when she barrelled into Johnson.

“Oh Sir I am so sorry I wasn’t looking where-“

“I was just down in archives,” said Johnson with a cool voice. “Looking for you.”

“Oh,” said Hermione, unsure what to say.

“Apparently I was unwise in assuming you would be on time.” There was a look in Johnson’s eyes that made Hermione’s hands shake.

“Sorry Sir.”

“Let’s not worry about that,” said Johnson in tone that did nothing to assuage Hermione’s anxiety. “I need to speak with you in my office.”

The lift ride up to Johnson’s office was mercifully short; Hermione didn’t think she could bear the tense atmosphere for much longer. She wanted to say something, to break the silence, but it felt as though if she opened her mouth her heart would jump out her throat.

Johnson marched several steps ahead of Hermione as they walked from the lift to his office. Once they arrived, he sat down at his desk and stared at her. He didn’t offer her a seat and Hermione didn’t feel in the position to just take one, so she stood. Her knees felt wobbly.

“Why are you doing this to me Granger?” Johnson was tapping his fingers on the desk in a rhythmic fashion. Hermione found herself becoming entranced by the tap-tap-tap. “Well, are you going to answer me?”

Hermione blinked. “What am I doing to you?”

Johnson rolled his eyes. “You know. Snooping around. Reading files not meant for you. Harassing workers down at the registry. Copying ministry papers without permission.”

“You don’t need permission to copy public records-“

“I keep putting my neck out for you.” Johnson’s voice was loud and shaking with rage. “After that stunt you pulled during _a court hearing_. I fought so hard to keep you on the placement. All you had to do was keep your head down. But no, you had to go messing around with things that are none of your concern.” He was still tapping in the desk, getting louder and louder. Hermione had the sudden urge to swat his fingers like you would a fly. “Why are you doing this Granger?”

Hermione’s mouth was dry; her throat felt as if it was full of sawdust. At that moment what she wanted more than anything was a glass of water. “I was curious,” she said, finally, wincing at the rasp in her voice.

Johnson raised his eyebrows. “Curious?”

Hermione felt a sudden surge of courage. “Yes Sir. And it was just cold case Sir. It’s over eighty years old. It’s not really that important. Most of the people who were involved are dead now. I don’t see any harm in investigating now, nor do I understand why anyone should have a problem with me looking into. I mean, it’s history.” Hermione was lying through her teeth. She knew in her gut the case was important; it matter, even if it only mattered to her. It was intriguing to discover that the case seemed to matter to other people as well.

Johnson glared at her. “My superiors – which means your superiors – think that it matters. They think that it matters that you have been snooping around and undermining protocol. Which means I have no choice. You’ve been suspended for the rest of this placement. You won’t be coming back into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. You’re lucky you’ve not been fired, but unfortunately for us, you’re talented.”

Hermione stood there, dumbstruck. She didn’t know how to respond.

“You should leave now,” said Johnson, gruffly.

Hermione turned and marched out of the room with as much dignity as she could muster. She cursed the wetness gathering in her eyes.

***

Hermione allowed herself five minutes to lie on her bed in despair. Then she forced herself up and to the table, where she sat with a cup of tea and a notepad, ready to plot out her master plan.

She stared at her notepad. It mocked her with its blankness.

It was difficult now. What she really needed to do was research Feckleberry and find out if he left anything behind: papers, memories, journals, anything that might give her a clue about what happened that day in 1920. Or, failing that, she needed to track down who was working with Feckleberry and find out if any of them were alive or had left any trace. But she could hardly do that without entering the area of the ministry she had just been ejected from. If she was seen to be snooping there after she had been suspended for snooping, her ministry career would be doomed. The impulsive, self-destructive part of her wondered if destroying her ministry career would even be a bad thing. She shook that thought away. The ministry may have been rotten, but the best way to fix that was to be part of it. The only way she could push through the reforms the wizarding world so desperately needed was if she managed to stay part of the establishment.

It felt like making a deal with the devil. She hoped it would be worth it.

So she couldn’t just walk into the ministry and let her career burn. She had to be more subtle than that. Polyjuice was her first thought, although that would take a while. Maybe she could borrow Harry’s invisibility cloak. That was worth considering.

Hermione was sitting at the kitchen table, pondering, when the sound of banging informed her that Ron was home and had walked into the fire extinguisher outside their door again. Despite this, Ron came in humming happily. He looked surprised when he saw Hermione sitting at the kitchen table, but that did not stop him beaming.

“What are you doing here?”

“I got suspended,” Hermione said glumly.

“Oh,” said Ron, “I’m sorry. But I’ve got something that will cheer you up.” He started rummaging about in his bag.

“What could possibly-“ Hermione began, but stopped when Ron produced a shining bronze frame from his bag. Inside the frame was a painting of an elderly wizard with an overgrown moustache and a shiny bald head. He was glowering.

“Take me back this instant young man!” shouted the portrait. “This is kidnapping.”

“I’ll take you back to your broom cupboard Ellis,” said Ron, “As soon as you have a chat with my friend here.” He looked up at Hermione and smiled. “This is Eliosious Feckleberry. Or Ellis, as he apparently likes to be called.”

“Not by you I don’t.” Eliosious huffed.

In that moment Hermione was reminded just how much she loved Ron Weasley.  

“How did you find him?”

“I asked around,” said Ron. “I thought that, since he seemed quite important, there might be a portrait of him somewhere. He wasn’t in any of the usual places, in the hall or in any of the top offices – Albertson caught me snooping in his office by the way, you owe me. But Sylvia mentioned something about shoving the more _troublesome_ paintings out of the way in broom cupboards.” He grimaced. “So naturally I spent the day checking each and every cupboard and lo and behold.” He held up Feckberry’s portrait and presented him with a flourish.

“I love you Ron,” Hermione said as she flung herself on him, holding him tight and kissing him on the lips. They only pulled apart from each other because of obnoxious protests of Feckleberry, who was still grasped tightly in Ron’s hand.

“I do not deserve to suffer through this,” grumbled Feckleberry. “Stop it at once.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “You’re really not in the position to demand anything you know.” Then he said to Hermione in mock whisper: “He wouldn’t shut up the whole journey. I had to put a silencing charm on my bag. When I came in the broom cupboard he was talking to himself. No wonder they shoved him away there.”

Feckleberry snorted.

“You won’t have any trouble getting information out of him.”

“I will give away nothing!” exclaimed the portrait, his moustache bristling with rage. “You will get sod all from me!”

Hermione raised her eyebrows.

“I am perfectly within my rights to use harsh language, given the situation.”

Hermione felt a sudden small twinge of guilt. He was an enchanted painting, yes, but he still sounded like a person. Maybe he was. “Come on Ron, put him down on the table, prop him up there.”

Soon, Feckleberry was settled on the table, leaning against a pile of books, still grumbling loudly. When Hermione sat down in front of him with her notebook and paper, he glared at her.

“I don’t know what you want from me but you are not getting it! You will have to torture me if you want government secrets, and even then-“

“Actually,” said Hermione, “I’m writing a book about your life.”

“Oh,” said Feckleberry, the hint of a smile appearing on his face. “Why didn’t you say so?” He puffed up what little bit of his chest was visible in the portrait.  

“I’m really fascinated by your life’s work,” said Hermione. “From the historical point of you – I’m a historian.” Hermione cursed herself inwardly for how awkward the words sounded. _I’m a historian._ How unbelievable.

Feckleberry didn’t seem to notice. He was beaming. “Yes, well, I was very important in putting through a lot of reforms of the auror office during my time in charge. Made it much more efficient, and helped bring through the laws allowing muggleborns to take the top positions in department. Came across a lot of opposition naturally, political types mostly, but I pushed through.” He paused and grinned widely. “I suppose you’ll want to ask me all about that?”

Hermione felt a moment of warmth towards the man, annoying as he was. “Actually,” she said brightly, “I already know a lot about that. I found lots of your colleagues very excited to talk about it.”

“Wonderful, wonderful,” said Feckleberry, “But surely a brief statement…?”

“Yes, of course of course, I would be honoured, but let’s do that later,” said Hermione. “I actually wanted to ask you about a case earlier in your career. Since that’s what I’ve found less evidence about.”

“Hmm.” Feckleberry looked rather disappointed that he was being deprived the chance to wax lyrical about his achievements at the ministry, but he remained attentive. “What case?”

“Do you remember Ruth Turnbolt?”

Feckleberry screwed up his face in concentration. It looked as though he was squinting at something very far away. “Well that must have been a long time ago. I dealt with a lot of cases over the course of my career you know.”

Hermione’s heart fell. “Are you sure you don’t remember her? She was Amelia Ennings’ sister?”

“Ahh,” said Feckleberry, a look of understanding dawning upon his face. “Amelia Ennings, of course. I had forgotten – her sister’s name was Ruth of course. Ruth was the one I first dealt with, although in the end all anyone ever talked about Amelia. Terrible business.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

Feckleberry smiled at her. “Now that you’ve reminded me. Truly awful.

“I was brought in to deal with Ruth, the sister, first of all. She was a squib, and they always gave the squib cases to me. Thought I was sympathetic I suppose.” There was a bitterness to his voice. “She was a silly lady if you ask me, paranoid. Thought this man – Fielding – was after her and since he was a wizard I got called in when she complained.” He laughed. “All he did was send her an unfortunate flower.”

Hermione’s warm feelings to Feckleberry vanished as quickly as they had come.

Feckleberry licked his lips. “Everyone thought – I thought – that she had to be quite enamoured with him, really. Certainly her sister thought this. And well, you know, she was in love with Fielding too; she confessed this, in the end. She had become obsessed with him just like he had become obsessed with her sister. Jealousy abounded.”

Hermione felt slightly sick. She focused on scribbling down Feckleberry’s words, even though she thought they were complete bullshit. She could see Ron in the corner of her vision, clenching and unclenching his fists.

“I tried to intervene,” Feckleberry continued, apparently unfazed by Ron and Hermione’s reactions. “Had a chat with the fellow, told him to step away, but of course there was very little I could do. It seemed like a simple conflict of the heart. I never imagined that it could end so terribly.”

“How did it end?” asked Ron, his voice shaky.

Feckleberry made a show of looking grim. “Amelia’s jealousy overtook her. One day Benjamin came to the home of her and her sister, to continue courting Ruth no doubt, and she killed them both. Brutal, absolutely brutal. She stole Benjamin’s wand, thinking she could blame the killings on him somehow, silly girl. And then cursed them both, killed them instantly. Just monstrous. Rather incredible though.”

“Incredible how?” asked Hermione.

“Nothing, nothing, it was just. She was never a powerful witch Amelia, when I knew her. Speaking to her when I first visited the house, she seemed totally hopeless. Almost as much a squib as her sister. But then,” his voice became deeper, “jealousy can be a powerful motivator.”

“What happened next?”

“It was all quite straight forward. Amelia was arrested, had a trial – it only lasted an hour, it was so open and shut – and then she was sent to Azkaban. And quite right too. That woman was a killer.” There was something defensive in his voice. “The only complication was the daughter.”

Hermione sat straight up in her chair. “What about the daughter?”

“Oh she made a fuss. A squib girl, like her aunt – Merlin I pity that family, such bad luck. She insisted that Benjamin had come to attack her mother, kept on that he was the violent one. She’d clearly been brainwashed by her mother before she died. She was being quite a thorn in the ministry’s side, I recall. She made things less simple than they needed to be. Just a squib, causing that trouble! But it was quite simple to obliviate her, and the kindest thing too, given her situation. No need for her to remember the wizarding world at all, her being non-magic and her only link to magic dead and gone-“

“What do you mean she was obliviated?” shouted Hermione.

A look of horror dawned across Feckleberry’s face. “I was not meant to say that. Damn my mouth, I shall say no more.”

“Yes you will say more,” said Hermione darkly. “You will explain exactly what you meant by that.” Hermione wasn’t exactly sure what she was threatening, but the menace in her voice was unmistakeable.

Feckleberry looked from Hermione to Ron to Hermione’s wand sitting on the kitchen table. He gulped. “Well it was just, just to help things along really. They didn’t want a squib child messing up their investigation, and as I said, it was a mercy really. I had nothing to do it, not my department, but it was just procedure…”

“Procedure,” said Ron flatly. “So this happened more than once?”

Feckleberry looked furious with himself. “Well, as I said, it had nothing to do with me. It was never my decision. But sometimes, when there were crime, people involved – witnesses – well they get hysterical, especially squibs witnessing magical crimes. So sometimes it was considered better, for the sake of quick justice, to help things along and well, adapt the witness.”

Hermione could feel disgust rising within. “You changed things. You fought for muggleborns. But you let this keep going on?”

Feckleberry just shrugged.

Hermione stood up and started pacing. Her mind was reeling. It felt like her blood was on fire with rage. But she was starting to understand now, why her superiors were reluctant about her investigating this case.

“Did they ever stop? Obliviating witnesses?”

Feckleberry looked shifted in his frame. “Not while I was there.”

So that was that. Recent cases, very recent case, had involved obliviation of witnesses. There were probably people locked up in Azkaban right now, imprisoned based on evidence _modified_ by Ministry Obliviators.

“This was only ever in open and shut cases; cases were it was clear,” Feckleberry said loudly. “It was mostly for the sake of the witnesses, to calm them.”

“Do you honestly believe that?” Hermione rounded on him. She could feel tears pricking at the corner of her eyes and she hated herself for it.

Feckleberry shrugged again. She wanted to punch him. Instead, she sat back down at the table and put her head in her hands. “Is there anything else you can tell us?”

“About the obliviations, no. As I said, I was never involved in that. I just knew of it. As for the Ennings case well – it went to trial, she went to Azbakan. Died a few years later I believe.”

“Do you remember anything about the trial?” Hermione asked.

“Oh I wasn’t there. I was in St Mungo’s at the time – Dragonpox. One of my colleagues went in my stead.”

“What was his name?” Hermione’s heart was beating fast. She was getting close, she could tell.

“Robert Temple.”

“Is he still alive?”

“Well he was when I was alive. Lived out in Nottingham.”

“Where? Specifically?”

Feckleberry recited the address to Hermione as she scribbled it down. “Thank you,” she said to Feckleberry, before nodding to Ron. He shoved the portrait into his bag.

“I’ll get this back to the ministry, then,” said Ron.

“Be back soon,” said Hermione, who was already gathering papers into her bag. “We’re going to Nottingham.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Stalking, sexual harassment, something sad happening to a child.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always appreciated. Thank you for reading.


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